


Far Too Great In Number To Ignore

by PBJellie



Series: South Park Kink Meme Requests [4]
Category: South Park
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, Kink Meme, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Reluctantly Sharon pegs Randy.Written for the South Park Kink Meme.





	Far Too Great In Number To Ignore

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Old College Try by The Mountain Goats.

“Come watch Food Network with me, Sharon.”

She sighed, not bothering to look towards the stairs as she cleared the dishes off of the table. The kids had long been asleep, but for whatever reason she decided it was prudent to get an hour of alone time on the couch, which she promptly wasted playing Candy Crush and scrolling through Facebook, instead of cleaning after dinner. 

“Maybe,” she huffed, not that it was loud enough for him to hear. But she would know she had indeed responded, so she wouldn't technically be lying if he was upset.

She stacked plates on a corner of the table, taking a note as she grabbed Shelley's, that she hadn't touched her macaroni or her bread. Stan hadn't eaten hardly any of his salad, though it was swimming in dressing. Why waste the dressing if you weren't going to eat the salad? It's not as if the cherry tomatoes need to marinate in a hot tub of ranch before their trip to the trash.

At least it was all in the bowl this time. Last month, after Boy Scouts, he had tried to dress his salad, but instead squeezed the bottle so hard it exploded onto the tablecloth, splattering against Shelley's arm. She had screamed, stomping up the stairs with all the anger her preteen body could muster, shouting that he was a turd and how he did it on purpose. Stanley started to cry, and Randy just ate like nothing was happening. 

“Sharon!” He whined. Surely, it was loud enough to wake the kids. 

Not that he was the one to put the kids to bed, no, never. That burden fell to Sharon, like all other unpleasant tasks in the house. She drove the recycling when the box overflowed with beer cans and wine bottles. She woke up at three in the morning to change the sheets when Stan wet the bed. She cleaned up after Sparky, the dog that Randy had joined the kids in begging for, accompanied by matching promises of cleaning up after it and feeding it. In true Randy fashion, he did not live up to his end of the bargain.

The dishes clattered in the sink as she started the hot water. She didn't bother with the elbow length gloves, it was just heat. It's not as if her nails were manicured anyways, where would she find the time for that? The hour she spent in the car to drive Shelley to dance class in North Park? 

Or maybe, she could find it in the weekly experience of having to speak with Liane and Sheila about whatever the boys had done that week. The boys summoned Cthulhu, of course they did, she'd hiss under her breath. Oh, what's that Sheila? You say Eric incited a race war? Of course he did, she'd think, but she'd just shake her head, because there was Liane, reassuring the group that it was a misunderstanding and her poopsykins would never try to murder a Latino man in Denver. 

How had they even gotten to Denver? She wondered as she scrubbed dried ketchup off of a plate. 

“I wanna watch Food Network!”

It had been Randy. Randy was the adult they tricked into taking them to an immigration rally downtown. At least the boys knew an easy mark when they saw one.

“I have needs in our marriage and you're not meeting them!” He shouted, a door slamming in the distance. 

She stopped the tap, shaking her head as she wiped her wet hands against her jeans. At least it had been casual Friday at work, slacks didn't absorb water in quite the same fashion. 

Slowly, she made her way up the stairs. Muttering to herself that Food Network was a dumb code for what he wanted to do, and it was made even worse by his instance that they watch actual the programming. Hopefully, this time, he wouldn't say Bobby Flay's name as he came. 

As she cracked open the door to the bedroom, she realized it was a dumb thing to hope. 

Bathed in the glow of the TV, currently playing an ad for a special nonstick pan that you can stick in the oven, was Randy, naked and jacking it. She rolled her eyes as she saw the strap on next to him. He had insisted the dildo be blue, because a pink or purple dildo would be too gay. 

He liked to take a fake penis in his ass, but not if the color was too feminine. She had argued that it wasn't like he'd have to see it as he was being fucked, so it didn't matter what color it was, there was no need to special order one when the sex shop had plenty and they had already driven two towns over. 

They had ordered it anyways. And Randy had thrown a fit when the FedEx man dropped it off, saying they had used it together, that she was cheating on him. He didn't take into account that she didn’t have any real interest in fucking him, her husband of fifteen years, with that electric blue atrocity, much less a stranger. 

“God, Sharron, it took you long enough,” he complained, dick half hard as he slowly stroked himself. A mostly empty bottle of lube sat on the nightstand as the announcer spoke of a secret marinade for brisket. She looked again at the toy, to see it was already wet, that he had decided to hurry along the process, meaning he had probably fingered and lubed himself already. 

Which was fine, because it's not like she wanted to do it. She peeled off her pants, deciding in short order that she didn't have to take off her sweater, that with any luck Randy would come quickly and she could finish the dishes. 

“You don't even look excited,” Randy pouted, crawling on the bed like a cat. Maybe if he was younger, or thinner, it would have been attractive, but all she could notice was the bald spot forming on the top of his head. Was it getting bigger? She squinted as he crawled closer, his hands tugging off her panties as she decided that yes, it was widening. At least it wasn't as bad as Gerald, yet. 

“I am,” she said, lacking all enthusiasm. She wasn't. There was no reason to be excited. She hoped he rode her, facing the TV, that was she could be still and close her eyes for a few minutes. Not as if she could catch a nap, or even go to sleep, because there was still so much to be done. Shelley wanted her lunch packed, and she feared that if she didn't do that a night ahead of time, that she'd run out of time come morning. 

“I know,” he hummed, biting his lower lip in what must have been an attempt at seduction. “You're so lucky to have me as a husband, of course you're excited. You just don't show it well. Never have.”

Or maybe it's because she has never been excited. Not for this. Not for sex with Randy.

It was a little exciting on their honeymoon, but maybe that was because she had never been to the beach, not so much the sex. The beach had been very nice, but the sex had been banal, at best.

She stepped into the straps, not bothering to remove her panties. The blue one Randy had ordered didn't have an attachment for her, which was fine, because it's not like she wanted to get off with him anyways. She tightening it, jiggling the portrustion for a moment, then laid onto the bed. 

The lube clung to her hand, and she almost wiped it on the sheets, but then she'd just have more laundry to do. It was better to use her sweater, she decided, it was going through the wash, anyways.

“I love you, honey,” he moaned, looking at her half lidded, before turning towards the TV. 

“Uh-huh,” she groaned, hoping it sounded sexual. Once she was certain he was entranced in Guy Ferrie’s explanation of how to fry an egg for a burger, she closed her eyes and let him sink down onto her. 

“That's so hot,” he whispered, voice throaty. She wasn't sure if it was from the television or the dick in his ass, but she didn't care.

“Yeah, it is,” she phoned in, barely bothering to change pitch. Maybe he'd think she was just so overwhelmed with sexual sensation. He probably would, he was always very into himself during intercourse. 

“Yeah,” he moaned, rising off of her, then forcing himself back down, “brush that patty with the maple glaze.”

To her credit, she did not laugh. 

“Nnn,” she was good at playing along, and it was nice to be off her feet for a few minutes. Lord knew that casual Friday did not mean she could wear shoes that didn't cut off circulation to her toes. It was a plastic surgeon, there were standards to uphold, or that's what Tom had told her.

“God, butter my bun, Guy,” he screamed, bouncing up and down, his legs pressing against her thighs. 

“Sharon,” she sighed, not appreciating being mistaken for a reality TV star, one that was a different gender and in reality, not all that attractive.

“Right, Sharon,” he corrected, quickly and under his breath, followed by a string of curse words.

It wasn't even a big deal he had a thing for this man, she didn't care. It did matter that she always had to be in the room for him to stick anything up his asshole, as if his wife being present negated the gayness of wanting to fuck a fat man with bleach blonde tips. 

She'd offered to purchase him a dildo, a plain one, with a suction cup, so she wouldn't have to lay there as if she were the door to the refrigerator. He immediately went up in arms, screaming that he wasn't gay, that the Japanese didn't pick him. 

She'd given up on that fight, as was generally the case.

“God, Guy! I mean Sharon, God, Sharon! You feel so good, your so good at this.”

“Uh-huh,” she agreed as if it were a skill to be still on a bed with her eyes closed. She'd taken the dildo, one evening when Randy was at a conference, and it wasn't anything spectacular. She'd given up, in fact, and decided to eat ice cream on the couch while the kids slept. She never did decide on a movie to watch, and she'd woken up to an add for a vacuum that could lift stains or some other assine bullshit. 

She could hear him masturbating now, which was generally a good sign that he was ready to come, which meant she was about to have to get up and finish the dishes. At least soaking in the sink makes the task easier. At least some positive can come from a waste of fifteen minutes of her evening. Fifteen minutes she could have been on Pinterest, or fifteen minutes she could have snooped around Carol's social media. 

She was fighting with Stewart, as she always was, and it was nice to know someone in town also had a terrible excuse of a marriage. Sheila never said anything bad about Gerald, but Sharon didn't trust him all the same. Something was off about him, and rummaging through his Facebook page just set off more warnings, though she wasn't sure why.

“Harder! Tenderize me, goddamn!” He shouted. Had her eyes been open, she would have rolled them. They weren't, so she just bucked up, shallowly, hoping to finish the job.

And it did.

He screamed loud enough to wake the town, then rolled face first onto the bed next to her, and mumbled goodnight. 

She didn't say anything as she removed the strap on. And by the time her jeans were on his breathing was heavy and even. She turned off the TV, and tiptoed down the stairs, and diligently did the dishes. 

The hot water did not help in the way she anticipated.

Such was life.


End file.
